


A Semblance of Touch

by downhereintheflightpath



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is oblivious, Friends With Benefits, Grantaire Has Feelings, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Substance Abuse, Trans Marius, melanesian enjolras, of course he is, what do you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downhereintheflightpath/pseuds/downhereintheflightpath
Summary: Grantaire knows it’s a bad idea as soon as the words fall from his mouth.Of course, he hadn’t meant to say it, but Enjolras had looked so awkward and shy, and, well, fuck, everyone and their dog knew how Grantaire felt about him. Hearing Enjolras talking like that so blatantly, even as he had fought to sound casual, as if he was simply asking Grantaire his opinion on a speech he’d made. He’d had to blink several times, processing what Enjolras was suggesting.In which; bad decisions are made, Enjolras and Grantaire have an arrangement, and Combferre (for once), is at a loss on which side to take.





	1. The Bad Idea

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic with these characters, so hopefully i'll do an okay job.  
> Updates will be sporadic at best, and you can't count on the chapters being long, but I'm excited to write about these idiots.
> 
> also, I'm quite tired, so if there are any errors in this chapter, please let me know <3
> 
> you can find me on tumblr here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which; arrangements are made, crimes against fashion are committed, and Enjolras makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work in this fandom, so hopefully I do ok, because I'm looking forward to writing about these dorks.
> 
> (EDIT: I've combined my original chapters since I first posted this, so they will be longer from now on.)

Grantaire knows it’s a bad idea as soon as the words fall from his mouth.

Of course, he hadn’t meant to say it, but Enjolras had looked so awkward and shy, and, well, fuck, everyone and their dog knew how Grantaire felt about him. Hearing Enjolras talking like that so blatantly, even as he had fought to sound casual, as if he was simply asking Grantaire his opinion on a speech he’d made. He’d had to blink several times, processing what Enjolras was suggesting.

           

_“Are- are you propositioning me for sex?”_

_Enjolras’ hands had looked impossibly soft as he wrung them in his lap. “No. I mean, well. Everyone kind of… has someone, and I couldn’t ask Combeferre, because well, you know how it is with Courfeyrac, and Jehan is so busy and I just hate the idea of doing it with a stranger and I- I thought you wouldn’t mind?”_

_“So, you thought, because I’m unemployed and not otherwise engaged, that I would be willing to… give up my time to support the cause?”_

_“No,” Enjolras’s face wrinkled in exasperation, then embarrassment, “It’s just that, I have needs too, Grantaire, and I thought that, well, it’s supposed to be fun, isn’t it? It’s not as if I’m asking you to kill someone for me. I would just prefer not to be distracted by these… needs. And anyway, I did some research and it said it could be relaxing and I have so much to- “_

_Grantaire tried to stop himself, tried to save his heart from the hurt he’s sure will come, but his mouth—his stupid, stupid fucking mouth—beat him to it. “Enjolras,” he interrupted “Of course we can. I would--” he almost had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from saying love, “—not object to such an idea.”_

 

He knows it’s a bad idea, and yet, when presented with that unearthly beauty, with those dark brown eyes and that fiery passion that has had Grantaire speechless on more than one occasion, how could he refuse?

 

When he arrives home, Eponine is in the kitchen, biting her lip as she watches a pot of pasta simmer on the stove. Her hair is piled on top of her head in the vague semblance of a bun, loose curls spilling down over her large t-shirt. It’s Grantaire’s. One of the shirts he had managed to rescue when Jehan had decided to do a wardrobe cull without his permission (They had put up a fuss, saying that he didn’t _need_ a shirt with a depiction of Christ on it, but he had insisted. After all, what do they know about the importance of religious iconography in art? Jehan’s specialty is writing free verse poetry and pining after bad boys.). He walks across the kitchen to stand beside her, tugging gently on her sleeve. “Hey ‘Ponine,” he grins, “What culinary masterpiece awaits us this fine evening?”

            She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, “Bolognaise,” she says with a sigh, “Gavroche said he wouldn’t eat anything that you didn’t make, and the only way I could convince him otherwise was a combination of carbohydrates and meat. Also, I may have promised him that you would make dessert.” She returns his smile sheepishly and, and then frowns as he opens the fridge door, withdrawing two bottles of beer. “Already?” she asks, Was he that bad?”

            “Whatever you’re thinking, it was worse,” he groans, pressing the beer to his cheek, “First he tried to ask me about my ‘job’, which was, of course, disastrous and then, and you will not fuckin’ believe this, Ep, he asked if I wanted to fuck him—” Grantaire breaks off abruptly as he notices Gavroche standing at the door, an impish grin spreading across his face.

            “It’s okay, ‘Taire, I know all about people doing sex. I heard Courfeyrac talking to Bahorel about— “

            “Aha,” exclaims Eponine suddenly, saving Grantaire from a conversation he’d rather not have with his best friends eleven-year-old brother, “Pasta’s ready!”

            He lifts Gavroche by his armpits and swings him around the corner followed shortly by Eponine, balancing three plates in her arms. “Don’t think we won’t talk about this later,” she whispers in his ear.

And they do.

 

After Gavroche has been deposited safely in bed, content with his stomach full of spaghetti and apple crumble, Eponine sits on the worn leather couch, drink in hand, and pats the space next to her. Grantaire obliges, sinking into the cushions and leaning heavily against her side. Her hair smells like earth and apples and _home_ , and he can’t help but sigh as he breathes it in. On looking up, he notices that her frown has returned, her brow furrowing in concern. “R,” she says softly, “You do know that this will be bad for you, don’t you?”

            “I do,” he replies, gently tapping her leg,” It’s just…” he trails off. His feelings for Enjolras aren’t hard to describe—they lie somewhere along the lines of love bordering on infatuation, and they are one hundred percent real, and one hundred percent unreciprocated. He doesn’t want to compare it to what Eponine felt (and as far as he knows, s _till feels_ ) about Marius, because it isn’t the same. Marius is awkward and likeable and adorable, and it wasn’t Eponine’s fault that Cosette had happened to walk into the Musain, sweeping them all, Marius especially, off their feet. But what he has with Enjolras—well, there are no blurred lines. Grantaire keeps up his act of cold-hearted skeptic, always with Enjolras near, and a bottle nearer, whilst the object of his affections, their glorious leader, looks on in disdain, having little time for drunks and those who do not believe in The Cause. For any outsider, for anyone with eyes, his feelings were painfully obvious. Combeferre had told him on multiple occasions that Enjolras didn’t need That Kind of Attention, and that Grantaire should maybe try something else (at this, Bahorel had fluttered his eyelashes and stroked his calf as if in offering), but it was useless. Enjolras’ way of talking has him hanging on every word like his life depends on it, and frankly, Grantaire suspects it does. For where else could one find such passion? Certainly not in the half-hearted sex he finds himself having, drunk on cheap whiskey and longing. And certainly not in his dreams, where even the gold of Enjolras’ hair, and the dark brown of his skin seem muted and cold.

            So, he knows. Fuck, how could he not know? Every time he lays eyes on Enjolras; every time he feels that scathing gaze of disapproval, he knows it can only end badly. And he tells Eponine this, because he knows she will not argue. “If it’s going to kill me,” he smirks, “At least I’ll know what his dick looks like in the afterlife.”

 

 

* * *

  

 

Combeferre is sick with worry as he waits anxiously for Enjolras’ return. The soup in the bowls in fronts of him are rapidly cooling, and just the thought of eating makes his stomach churn. _What has he done?_  What was he _supposed_ to have done?

            _Enjolras had confronted him on his way out of the bathroom, seemingly unaware of the towel slung around his waist. He had always assumed Enjolras was repressed, having lost his virginity hastily in high school to ‘get it over with early’, and then saying nothing more on the subject, but this.  This was intense and strange and very un-Enjolras. “Combeferre,” he had said from where he sat eating his breakfast,” Join me.” Combeferre had humoured him, sitting next to him at the heavy oak table. He said nothing, and his friend took this as a cue to continue talking. “I was wondering, ‘Ferre, about Grantaire.”_

_Combeferre blinked. “What?”_

_“Well,” Enjolras was fidgeting—highly uncharacteristic of someone so strong, “Lately I’ve been… distracted from my studies, and I thought that physical intimacy may help alleviate some of the, uh, symptoms.”_

_“Have you tried— “_

_“Yes, Combeferre, of course I have,” he snapped impatiently, “It just seems to make it worse.”_

_Combeferre came to the conclusion that he was dreaming. The whole situation seemed ridiculous, and frankly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be in it. The conversations he held with Enjolras were about history and books and The Cause, not… sex and well, that. It had almost not crossed his mind that someone like Enjolras would_ be _distracted by such things and—he remembered the mention of Grantaire. “Enj,” he said carefully, “Why were you wondering about Grantaire?” He wasn’t the artist’s biggest fan, it could be said. More than once he had admonished R on his sad worship of Enjolras, but, if he was asking about him now, and in relation to sex, then maybe. Maybe there was hope for the both of them._

_“Well, honestly, Combeferre, he seems to have experience in the matter, and I thought that maybe if I went to him about the it…” It seemed as though Enjolras was searching for his approval, and he was more than happy to give it. A relationship was exactly what Enjolras needed._

_“I think that would be good, Enj. Grantaire is… interesting. Go talk to him, about this, and I’m sure you’ll sort something out.”_

_“Thank you, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, typing something on his phone, and then standing abruptly. He walked to the door, grabbed his coat of a hook, and then turned again to face him. “I figured that Grantaire was probably the person in the group who there was least likely to be confusion around. Everyone knows we don’t exactly adore each other, so I think that something… detached…would benefit us both, don’t you think? If I’m being completely honest, I would like as little interference from my emotions as possible at the moment, and I Grantaire would likely say the same.” He gives Combeferre one last stiff smile, and is gone, a half-eaten slice of toast still left on the table._

_“Fuck.”_

* * *

 

Enjolras enters his apartment feeling relieved and slightly shaky. It had taken a lot of his courage (and pride), to ask that of Grantaire, but he’s thankful that it was over with, and that now he might possibly be able to concentrate more on his studies. After all, it’s just sex, and that is hardly a thing to be embarrassed about. His mood lowers slightly when he notices Combeferre, sitting stiffly at the table, looking as if he is about to be sick. “What’s the matter?” he asks gingerly, slipping off his shoes and coat, “Was the soup bad? Musichetta dropped it off yesterday, but I froze it so it should have kept.”

            Combeferre offers him a wan smile. “No,” he says weakly, “It’s great I just… never mind. It’s fantastic.” He lifts a spoonful of the obviously cold soup to his mouth, as if to prove his point”

            “Here,” Enjolras says, walking towards him and taking his bowl out from in front of him. “Let me heat these up, you look like you’ve caught a cold.”

            Combeferre nods, and Enjolras thinks he hears a sigh as he walks to the kitchen. Hopefully his friend isn’t too ill, as they have an important meeting concerning the homelessness crisis coming up, and Combeferre has some incredibly good points to bring up. The microwave beeps twice, and the smell of Musichetta’s soup wafts around him. He carries it back slowly to Combeferre, and they eat in relative silence, exchanging brief words about the impending meeting at the Musain.

The soup, of course, is incredible.

 

* * *

 

 

The following day, Grantaire and Eponine deposit a wriggling and impatient Gavroche on Montparnasse’s doorstep. The man is holding a bag full of what looks suspiciously like cans of spray paint, and his dark eyes are full of mischief. “Ready to do some art, little guy,” he grins, looking at Gavroche, then he directs his gaze to Eponine questioningly.

            “As long as you stay away from cops,” she says tiredly, “I don’t give a shit.” Her brother lets out a yell of excitement and darts past Montparnasse into the room behind him. They hear the distant noises of someone rummaging through drawers, and decide that this is their cue to leave.

The air is cold against Grantaire’s face, and he shivers, pulling his beanie down over his ears. “He’s going to turn into ‘Parnasse if you aren’t careful,” he chuckles, looking back the way had come.

Eponine grunts in response, pulling a slice of toast from her pocket and tearing it in half. She hands a piece to Grantaire, chewing thoughtfully on her own. When they had first met, he had been vaguely alarmed at the fact that she always had food secreted on her person, but after meeting her family, he could understand why. The Thènadiers are an unpredictable and violent couple, forcing Eponine to live in a constant state of running away. Last year had been the last time she’d seen them, and even then, it had been brief, as she had taken Gavroche and moved in with Grantaire, who, in all honesty had been in desperate need of a roommate (even if one of them was eleven). It’s all part of his routine now, even the toast, which, apart from being slightly fluffy, is quite nice.

 

As they draw closer to the Musain, a weight grows in Grantaire’s stomach. Eponine senses his discomfort, and puts a hand on the small of his back. “It’s okay,” she murmurs “You can refuse him if you want. You don’t have to do this.”

A lump forms in his throat. “Yes,” he replies “Yes I do. You have no idea how long I’ve— How _much_ I’ve wanted this.” He shakes off her hand and walks in ahead of her, propping the door open with his shoulder for Jehan, who arrives at the same time as them. Jehan’s outfit today is a shock of blue and green patterns, and forget-me-nots are woven into their pale orange hair. Grantaire is convinced they are some kind of fairy, but when they greet him, their hug and gentle laugh are nothing but human

“Hey, R,” they smile, as they grab his hand and drag him to where their group has congregated around a frowning Enjolras.

He looks up at Grantaire’s arrival, and narrows his eyes. “You’re late, R.”

Grantaire splutters in indignation as Courfeyrac laughs loudly at his expression of disbelief. “Jehan is late too,” he scowls “Where is their big reprimand? Or am I the only one worthy of your wrath, Apollo?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, but Jehan beats him to it “Do you think this outfit coordinates itself, ‘Taire?” and just like that, all tension diffuses. Courf pulls out a cake in a Tupperware container from his bag, rattling it in Grantaire’s direction, but he politely refuses, choosing instead to follow Enjolras subtly with his gaze. This time though, unlike every other meeting, where Grantaire is free to observe quietly and without drawing attention, Enjolras catches his eye. He isn’t sure what the look he is given says, but the eyes he meets are burning with something unfamiliar, so he decides to give it a rough translation of _‘later’_. It turns out to be an extremely uncomfortable meeting for him, unsure now of where to direct his eyes, as he has nothing of value to contribute to the conversation. Halfway through, after Joly has most generously paid for a round of coffees, he turns to find Combeferre looking at him over his glasses, his skin unusually pale, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. It confuses him, briefly, but he shrugs it off, choosing instead to concentrate on the work in front of him (Which is a startlingly realistic drawing of Bossuet as an egg).

 

He was right about Enjolras though. That look had meant what he thought it had, and, as he is picking up his jacket to leave, he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Grantaire.” He says his name softly, like he doesn’t want to break it, and Grantaire melts at the sound.

“Yeah?” he says shakily, bracing himself for what the conversation he knows is sure to come.

But Enjolras is quiet, grabbing the corner of Grantaire’s shirt and leading him to the door. “Come.”

It’s just one words, and Grantaire isn’t sure whether the double meaning is intended. Knowing Enjolras, it probably isn’t, and he can’t help but smile to himself as he allows himself to be tugged out into the dark.

 

 

  _He can’t think._

All Grantaire can see is skin—God, so much _fucking_ skin—and he feels like he’s going to combust. Enjolras’ body is radiating so much heat its almost unbearable, and he’s making obscene sounds next to Grantaire’s ear, and _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ it’s too much. He can feel fingernails scraping at his back and he bites down hard on his own lip to stop himself from making a sound. Because he can’t. It feels fucking incredible, and Grantaire isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t wanted this for years (because he has, with every inch of his being), but he never wanted it to be like this. The only thing he can think to compare it to is _hate sex_ , but Enjolras doesn’t hate him. Dislike, maybe. Disdain and scorn would be somewhere on the list. But not hate. Everyone knows that, at least on his part, their bickering is harmless, although now it feels like Enjolras is unleashing some kind of pent up energy and _Jesus fuck,_ just how repressed _is_ he?

He’s trying desperately to detach himself from the situation, and so he definitely doesn’t notice how smooth the dark skin of Enjolras’ neck is, or the way his hands ball up in the sheets by his sides. And he absolutely doesn’t think about Enjolras’s full lips as he whispers and moans—curses and incoherent strings of words, but never Grantaire’s name. And he almost lets himself ignore the ache in his chest; almost lets himself feel _good_. But it won’t happen again— _can’t_ happen again—and he doesn’t want to miss it when it’s over. He doesn’t want to remember the way Enjolras’ hands feel on his hips, or the way his brow furrows gently as he waits for Grantaire to become comfortable. He doesn’t want to remember the way he falls apart beneath Grantaire, his hips jerking involuntarily upwards (a good bottle of scotch might fix that problem though, he thinks afterwards, if he finds one quickly enough).

 

When it’s over, Enjolras sits up slowly and pushes Grantaire gently off him. He gestures to the tissue box on his bedside table as he walks out of the room. “I’m going to shower now,” he says, still slightly out of breath. “You can use it after me if you like. I’ll only be a minute.”

As soon as he hears the sound of running water, Grantaire lets out a sigh and props himself up on his elbows. He contemplates staying for all of two seconds, and almost kicks himself for thinking he would be welcome in the slightest, so he collects his clothes as quickly as he can, briefly stopping before pulling on his shirt to wipe his own mess off his stomach.

 

When he closes the front door behind him and feels the darkness of the stairwell close in on him, he allows the disgust and shame and sadness to chase away the post-coital buzz. _Now where the fuck is the nearest bottle shop,_ he thinks bitterly.

 

* * *

 

When Enjolras emerges from the shower, Grantaire is gone. It’s not as though he expected otherwise, but he can’t help but feel slightly hurt as pulls on a pair of sweatpants and climbs into bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire wakes up to glaring sunlight, and a face hovering only a few inches from his own. Before his eyes focus, he panics, thinking that he is somehow still in Enjolras’ bed, but when he adjusts to the brightness, Courfeyrac is staring at him. “Fuck off,” he groans, attempting to roll onto his side and being impeded by the surprisingly strong thighs that pin him down. “Fucking _fuck,_ my head.”

Courfeyrac clicks his tongue disapprovingly, and grabs Grantaire’s phone from the bedside table, waving it in his face. “What’s this, R? One o’clock?” He clicks his tongue again and Grantaire is just about ready to punch him when Combeferre’s voice floats in from the kitchen.

 _Thank God,_ he thinks, and then— _wait._ Because neither Courfeyrac or Combeferre live here. He left slightly more awake, but just as confused, when Courfeyrac leaps off his stomach and out of the room. Now that he can open his eyes without being blinded, he notices the winter sun that filters through the window is weak and colder than he had first thought. It’s going to be sketching day, he decides. Oils are far too strong for these colours and angles.

 It’s also going to be a tea and whiskey day.

           

Pulling on the nearest shirt—not the sweat stained one from last night, but one that smells like turpentine and makes him feel warm—he stands, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw. he can hear Eponine laugh from the kitchen. She has always loved Courfeyrac, and Grantaire is fairly certain they had a Thing a few years ago. The laughter entices him out of his room and towards the smell of fresh coffee. It’s not the shitty stuff Eponine usually buys, but real, actual coffee beans, and Combeferre, as if by magic, hands him a mug as soon as he emerges. He mutters a croaky ‘thank you’ and sits heavily on the sofa, cradling the cup in both his hands, inhaling the bitter smell. Combeferre is a fucking saint sometimes, not that Grantaire would ever tell him. Combeferre has always been slightly cold towards him, but he always has the occasional soft moments. Not that now seems like one of them. Now he is standing rather stiffly by the window, looking everywhere but at Grantaire. Eponine as well, he notices, looks uncomfortable, and is grinding her teeth, a nervous habit honed after years of being the sole guardian of a child. Courfeyrac, however, is grinning and stirring his fucking sweet-ass, milky tea. Then he winks at Grantaire.

 “Congrats on the sex,” he says with a smirk.

“Congrats on finding the ugliest pants known to man,” Grantaire retorts. “Also, kindly fuck off.”

“But ‘Taire...” Courf is now pouting and stretching out his hideously yellow clad legs, almost spilling his tea as he bounds across the room to sink down beside Grantaire. “This is _fashion_ ,” he says, looking pointedly at his faded shirt and boxers. “And you don’t even smell like sex, R. Frankly, I’m disappointed. You shouldn’t even _be_ here. Why aren’t you lying beside Enjolras, covered in fluids and whatno— “

“Courf.” It’s Combeferre that raises his voice over Courfeyrac’s increasingly inappropriate monologue. “Lay off it, will you? I’m sure R is tired and doesn’t need you hassling him.” He exchanges an odd glance with Eponine, which Courfeyrac doesn’t miss, and seems to have interpreted it in some way or another, because he starts talking again, this time slower, but still not serious.

“Ahh… cool. I get it. This is like, _casual_ or something? Hot. You guys can be like from that movie? Friends with Benefits or something? Fuckbuddies? I hope it’s a secret—I fucking _love_ secrets. But, wait—” His eyes narrow as he looks at Grantaire in a calculating, scary way. He shivers slightly under Courfeyrac’s gaze, and buries his face in his mug, feeling the steam condense on his nose. “ _You’re a romantic!_ ” he crows. “Ah fuck I’d completely forgotten. All those times we tried to get you to have casual sex! Even that guy who looked _exactly_ like Enj.” Grantaire knows he doesn’t mean it in a malicious way. Courfeyrac sometimes has problems controlling what he says and how he says it due to lingering ADHD issues from childhood, but he’s getting better; mellowing out. High school Courf was a whirlwind of shrieks and loud chatter and the constant tapping of pens and hands on whatever surface was at hand. So Grantaire waves away Combeferre when he tries to interject. He’s almost curious to see where the conversation (if it can even be called one) will lead them. Courfeyrac continues, oblivious to the growing discomfort in the room. “God, R, you practically get off on the _concept_ of monogamy. Ha! I can just imagine it.” He screws his face up in fake ecstasy and moans loudly. “Enjolras… fuck! _Make breakfast with me daddy…_ ”

 

At this, Eponine lets out a large snort, unable to contain herself, and Grantaire throws a pillow at her. Combeferre leaps out of the way, spilling coffee on himself in the process, and just like that, the tension diffuses. He uses the distraction to extract himself from Courfeyrac’s side, where his friend has latched onto him, and knocks back the rest of his coffee in one go. He’s going to need a lot more than coffee if his friends’ plans to build a blanket fort are anything to go by.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras wakes up to an empty flat, and gets up, confused at the silence. Usually Courfeyrac would’ve shown up by this hour, and would be camped on their sofa watching obnoxious cartoons. He finds a hastily scribbled note, however, in Combeferre’s handwriting, saying that he and Courfeyrac had gone to Eponine’s (and _that means Grantaire’s_ , he thinks with contempt) for bunch. The note also states that there are pancakes in the oven, ready to be heated, and Enjolras’ stomach growls.

 

The pancakes are obviously a few hours old, and he can’t be bothered heating them, so he eats them cold with honey as he pours over his notes for the next meeting. It’s in a couple of days, but he wants to be prepared, and the quiet house is just the opportunity to make final adjustments. The view out of their windows isn’t anything special, but it is comforting as Enjolras settles on his favourite rug, tying his hair back with something looks like a rag, but that Jehan insists is currently in fashion. Jehan gave him a lot of things for his hair, but he really only uses the headbands and hair ties (there is also a bandana which he quite likes, but would never wear outside the flat, due to Courfeyrac’s insistence that ‘only pricks wear bandanas’).  He lies flat on his stomach, head in a book, for several hours, and that is where Combeferre finds him when he arrives home in the evening.

           

“Jesus, Enj. How can you even see in here?” he says incredulously as he turns on the light.

 

 

The days leading up to the meeting are uneventful, and Enjolras is glad to be standing with his friends again, even if Bahorel is wearing a ridiculously indecent tank top.

“Please, in the name of all things that are good,” says Bossuet warmly, “Tuck your nipples away where they can’t be seen.”

“Free the nipple my friend,” Bahorel responds. Enjolras decides to turn away when Courfeyrac offers to cut out a bellybutton hole in the thing, brandishing a large pair of scissors.

Their corner of the café slowly fills up, with Enjolras getting his fair share of painful pats on the back, as well as warm bear hugs, and he is just about to begin, when an unfamiliar man enters, Eponine and Grantaire following close behind with Eponine’s younger brother. He isn’t sure whether to focus on Grantaire or the stranger, but the decision is seemingly made for him when he hears an intake of breath beside him. He turns to see a furiously red Jehan tugging awkwardly at their sleeves and looking anywhere but the man who had just entered. Enjolras wonders who he is, to warrant such a reaction out of Jehan, who is usually graceful and collected, but he doesn’t have to wonder long, as Eponine quickly introduces the man as Montparnasse, her friend of several years.

 

Montparnasse is dressed all in black: a long coat, tight jeans, and a brimmed hat that he does not take off as he sits down next to Grantaire, who looks astonishingly dishevelled in a hoodie that looks like it’s probably Eponine’s and jeans that have been hastily cuffed in an attempt to look neater. One of Grantaire’s ankles is showing over the top of his sock, and Enjolras notices with a small smile, that there is a small flower drawn there in pen. He suddenly wishes he was close enough to see what kind.

“Montparnasse just wants to listen,” she says, “So please,” and with this she looks at Grantaire, “Be civil.”

Grantaire only grins and takes a sip from the flask he usually has secreted somewhere on his person. He has no sketchbook with him tonight, so Enjolras wonders just how many sceptical remarks and contradictions he will have to put up with tonight.

 

 

A lot apparently. For the fourth time in the past hour, Grantaire’s face is flushed, either from alcohol or anger, and he is glaring at Enjolras

“But, don’t you think that, as someone who has never spent a single night on the street, let alone without electricity, that you maybe don’t have the _right_ to be saying this shit?” he says heatedly. “I mean, there are people who haven’t slept in a bed their entire lives, and here you are, trying to organise a fucking sleep out? Honestly? It’s cliché as fuck, and I think you need to leave it to someone else who actually knows what the fuck they're talking about.” His hands are clenched into fists, and Enjolras blinks several times. He soon recovers from the initial shock of being spoken to so harshly, and snaps back in the coldest voice he can muster.

“And that would be who? You, R?”

 

There is complete silence for what feels like hours, as Grantaire looks at him in a mixture of disbelief and hatred. Eponine has her hand bunched in the back of his jumper, and Montparnasse, who hasn’t spoken a word the entire evening, finally breaks the silence.

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?” He says, with a voice that could cut steel. And with that, he stands, takes both Grantaire and Gavroche by the shoulders, and steers them away.

Eponine slowly stands, and takes one last, smouldering look at Enjolras before she follows them into the darkening street.


	2. Stars (And Seriously Wicked Lasers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which; Combeferre makes a phone call, Enjolras pays a visit, and neither get what they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> In this chapter there's some backstory, and a lot of thinking.  
> Also, Enjolras' Autism is based loosely around the experience of a friend, and as i don't have it myself, if there is anything i could include/add/change about my portrayal of it, please let me know.  
> Thank you to Phantastic_Whovian for being my beta <3  
> (Edit: a huge thanks to radianceofthefuture for letting me know that Asperger's is no longer diagnosed. It was very much appreciated and needed)

Enjolras knows he’s fucked up as soon as the door slams behind them, and he faces the looks of shock and horror that paint the faces of his friends. He doesn’t understand why though. It’s not as if what he has just said is unusual to the banter that he and Grantaire usually share, and he has definitely said worse before.

He knows that Eponine has lived in various forms of homelessness—when she had first started following Marius to meetings, she had been sleeping more often than not down in the metro, where at least there was a degree of shelter. But she has never shown any signs of discomfort during their meetings on the topic, and he’s never pegged Grantaire as the type to be that overprotective. He’s never really pegged Grantaire as anything at all, apart from someone likes to drink, and has something to do with the art department at their university. And someone who, when he furrows his brow and challenges Enjolras with words that are far too well put together for someone who has had that much alcohol, makes him feel a warmth inside him akin to the feeling he gets when he is about to stand in front of a crowd; a burning in his stomach and on his cheeks. Until very recently, they have only interacted in a group setting, surrounded by all their friends to buffer the undeniable tension between them, which is one of the reasons that he had thought that Grantaire would be the best to help with his situation. Less to ruin, he had thought at the time, though looking back, that may not have been the soundest reasoning. Of course, he didn’t plan on ruining it. Enjolras would rather like to become better acquainted with R; he certainly knows how make him _think_ , at any rate.  Not to mention that all of Enjolras’ friends (save Combeferre, he supposes) seem to enjoy Grantaire’s company. He feels like he is missing out on some crucial part of Grantaire: the part that makes Jehan spend hours talking animatedly in the park with him; the part that makes Bahorel light up after spending time at the gym with him doing God-knows-what. He especially feels like he’s missing out on understanding the part that seems to hate him so much.

He locks eyes with Combeferre, and he doesn’t know what to think. in almost every situation, Combeferre has his back, and he can rely nine times out of ten on the fact that Combeferre will agree with, or at least understand, his decisions. He _trusts_ Combeferre. But now, looking into his friend’s eyes, he doesn’t see support, he sees—god—Enjolras doesn’t know what he sees, but he knows it’s bad. He starts to feel claustrophobic in the stuffy café, and the silence caused by the initial shock of his statement turns into a buzz that quickly becomes a roar. Jehan begins to shout at him, though he cannot hear what they are saying, and Courfeyrac is making wild hand gestures at Feuilly.

He is about to scream, to tell everyone to _shut up_ , but he feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting. He subconsciously leans into the touch, and doesn’t protest when the hand (that just so happens to be attached to Combeferre) leads him from the room, and into the cool hallway outside the bathrooms.

The chill in the air is soothing, and floods his body with relief, but before he can utter a single word of thanks, Combeferre is speaking.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Enj. That was a dick move.”

That’s the one thing Enjolras _does_ understand in this situation, and he tells Combeferre this. “I know, ‘Ferre. I’m not fucking stupid.”

Combeferre flinches. “God, of course you aren’t, it’s just—Jesus, Enjolras! Don’t you know anything about R?” He doesn’t say it angrily. On the contrary, his face is twisted, and he looks either sad or in pain. Or both. “I know that people can have secrets, but really. You’ve known him over a year. Don’t you think you maybe should know— “

Enjolras cuts him off.” I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but R barely knows anything about me, either. Why does everyone just expect me to know what to do all the fucking time? I don’t even know why what I said was wrong, okay? I just—” His voice begins to shake, but he finishes his sentence in a gasping whisper “I don’t know.”

“Shh,” Combeferre says softly as he moves to hug Enjolras. “It’s okay. That really may not have been the smartest thing you’ve ever said, but I know it can be difficult for you. I really do.”

Combeferre is the only one that knows; was the only one that day, when Enjolras had gone into the counsellor’s office seeking treatment for stress, and left with a referral to a psychiatrist, who had seen the terror in his eyes. Later that week, Combeferre had been the only one with him as he relayed the diagnosis over steaming coffee. Autism, apparently. It isn’t unusual that mild forms are diagnosed so late. He had been eighteen, and after all the previous raising of awareness he had done for autism with his friends, he had been disappointed about how the diagnosis had made him feel. Scared. Hopeless. What kind of a politician would he make now? Would he become one at all? In reality, nothing had changed; he was still the same person he had ever been, but now, instead of being just ‘socially inept’, his whole brain had a label. He tries so hard to be proud, but even Courfeyrac doesn’t know. The thing that scares him the most, Enjolras thinks, is that his friends will treat him differently. He hates that he doesn’t trust them enough, and he has almost told them many times, he _swears_. But the words catch on the tip of his tongue.

He hates that sometimes, just sometimes, it makes him hurt people.

He doesn’t like to think of it often.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling Combeferre’s musky cologne and feeling stubble scratching against his neck. It grounds him. “Ferre, please. Explain?” he doesn’t say it harshly—on the contrary. He feels scared and dreads the answer he is about to receive.

“It isn’t really my place to say, Enjolras. I’m sorry. I thought you knew, but if you don’t already, then R should tell you himself. I think there are a lot of things you don’t know about him.”

“Like what?”

Combeferre grins. “Like… he has an extensive collection of Russian folk music? I don’t know Enj, just talk to him for God’s sake.”

Enjolras frowns, pulling away from Combeferre and straightening up. He isn’t sure how willing Grantaire will be to talk to him after what had just happened, but he supposes it’s worth a try. “I don’t know. I think he may hate me—actually, this time.”

But Combeferre pats him on the back as he nudges past him and wedges open the door with his foot. “Enjolras, believe me,” he says with a grimace, “R _really_ doesn’t hate you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire’s breath mists in the air before him, and his cold fingers fumble with the cap of his flask. The sky is black and the moon is pale and emaciated as it appears in between wafts of cloud. There aren’t any stars—it’s usually hard to see them in the city, even on a clear night—the light pollution makes sure of that. Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s glad or not. Some days, the vastness of the sky makes him feel comfortable in knowing that in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter what shitty, god-awful decisions he chooses to make. Other nights, he wishes that the stars would disappear, that they would fall out of the sky and litter the earth for him to touch.

He dreams often of stars, but never that he touches them. A recurring dream that he has been having of late puts him in a large field at the bottom of a hill, and as he stands there, unable to move, a man emerges at the crest of the hill. Grantaire can never speak, only watch as the man reaches up, pulling the stars one by one from the sky and setting them at his feet. When all the stars are gone from the sky, the darkness is not in the earth but above him, and he can see that the man’s back is turned through the silver glare. He wakes up when the man looks behind him, often in a cold sweat, but he never glimpses the face. He doesn’t need to—he knows who it is. He once tried telling Eponine about the dream, but halfway through she started feigning yawns and rubbing her eyes.

“This is a shitty dream,” she had said. “I prefer the one with Courfeyrac and the bratwurst clogs.”

He doesn’t really know why he bothered. At the peak of his angst fuelled, Enjolras related confusion, he had looked at every dream analysis theory on the internet, to little success. But he had laughed when he had read the meaning of stars.

 _‘_ _To see stars in your dream symbolizes excellence, success, aspirations or high ideals. You are putting some decision in the hands of fate and luck. Perhaps you are being too "starry eyed" or idealistic. Or the stars may represent a rating system. You are you trying to evaluate a situation or establishment.’_

And that had hadn’t been all of it. Another entry said that:

 _‘To see stars_ _in your dream signifies conflict, negativity and aggression. Since it is often associated with Satan and evil, the dream may also imply that you are you feeling guilty about something. Alternatively, it represents the physical world and your preoccupation with materialistic gains.’_

Eponine who had been reading over his shoulder at the time had snorted. “Materialistic gains like dick.”

She hadn’t been at her most helpful and supportive when he had first realized the extent of his feelings for Enjolras, to say the least. He doesn’t blame her for it though; he had spent almost an entire summer moping around the apartment and hitting things. It still embarrasses him to think about, not that he’s any better now.

Now he sits on a bench thinking about fucking _stars_ , and knowing that it is only possible for him to hate Enjolras for a maximum of forty-eight hours before he’s back at the Musain, hanging on his every word. This time probably isn’t any different to the others. Enjolras aims to hurt, and to be fair, Grantaire had pushed him. He knows that all Enjolras wants is equality, but it’s the way he goes about it that irks Grantaire; the way he thinks that un-fucking the entirety of humankind is an achievable goal for anyone, let alone a group of marginalized students.

 

He falls asleep on a bench that night, for the first time in years, and he wakes to warm hands on his face.

“What the _fuck,_ Grantaire! You could’ve died, you absolute _fuckface._ ” He knows the voice; no one says fuck like Marius does—like it’s still something naughty, only to be saved for special occasions. He guesses he must be a special occasion.

“Hey,” he croaks, but is unable to get anymore words out. He coughs, and clears his throat, squinting at the pale, freckled face that hovers above him. “Who gave you that dirty mouth?” his voice sounds awful, and it shows on Marius’s face as his brows knit together.

“We’ve all been looking for you R. God—Eponine, she—God, once she finds out you’re okay—You _are_ okay, aren’t you? You’re not hurt? God— “

“Marius. Stop.” Grantaire sits up, his head pounding. “I’m fine. I just… needed a break. That’s all.”

“A break on a park bench in winter? Seriously, R?” Marius grabs his forearm and hauls him to standing. Grantaire is a fair bit taller than Marius, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling a little nervous at the flash of worry and anger that crosses his face. “You look terrible.”

“Hangover. I’ve had worse. Let’s just… I mean, could I possibly come back to yours? Sorry it’s just, Eponine, y’know? I don’t know if I want be hung drawn and quartered as soon as I step through the door.”

Marius looks Grantaire in the eyes, and then pulls him into a firm hug. For a brief moment, Grantaire is sure he will agree, and relishes in the idea of Cosette’s warm, un-judging smile. “Sorry, R,” Marius whispers into his ear. “You owe her this.”

Grantaire breathes out a _‘fuck’_ that doesn’t escape Marius’ notice, and he receives a look of reprimand in return as Marius draws away and begins winding his way through the cold and leafless park.

 

When he arrives home, Eponine doesn’t quite hang, draw and quarter him, but he does receive many cold looks before she cracks and throws her arms around him.

 “Jesus, ‘Taire. You big fucking idiot. Don’t pull shit like that on me, yeah?”

It doesn’t take long until he’s warm again.

 

* * *

 

 

Waking up uncomfortable isn’t something Combeferre is used to. Waking up in a hurry, sure. Waking up to yells and screams of laughter from Courfeyrac? Not at all uncommon. But this ache in his stomach is an entirely new sensation. He feels sick and nervous, and the only time he’s ever felt remotely similar is when he had to cover for Bossuet and Bahorel while they skipped class in high school to smoke pot.

Guilt. He’s never felt it this acutely before—never felt that he has done something bad enough to warrant it—but he definitely feels it now, keen and sharp. Because it is _his_ fault. He can’t even talk to Enjolras about it without further worsening the whole situation, and any of his other friends knowing is completely out of the question. He doesn’t want to even think of the looks they would give him. The looks that would say ‘ _how could you?’_ and ‘ _you should’ve known better’._ And he really, really should’ve.

The whole of the ABC is painfully aware of Grantaire’s feelings for Enjolras (except maybe Marius, who has eyes for nothing but Cosette) but Combeferre has never really had feelings on the subject save pity and annoyance. Still, all things considered, he considers himself to be a fairly compassionate person—not the kind who would play with the emotions and lives of others. The fact that he had pretty much knowingly entered Grantaire into a relationship that Enjolras had explicitly stated he was in only due to his _lack_ of feelings—it’s a pretty shitty thing to do to anyone. And no matter how callous Grantaire appears to be at meetings, it doesn’t escape Combeferre’s notice that he and Eponine occasionally exchange glances that hold more meaning than he can comprehend, and that when her hand rests on his shoulder, he melts into her touch. It feels too soft for someone who had only two minutes earlier been shouting that the entire education system is ‘a fucking bullshit scam designed to rope unsuspecting kids into desk jobs’ over Enjolras’s desperate attempts to continue his _Learning is a Gift_ speech.

Combeferre’s morning is not usually filled with so many emotions, let alone so many negative emotions, and as he eases his feet onto the cold hardwood floor, he shakes his head as if to rid himself of them. He needs to talk to someone about this before he loses his mind and as he deeply regrets not consulting Musichetta before he ruined everything, he remembers Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac had knocked on his door the morning after Enjolras had brought Grantaire back with him, much to his horror. He had slept with music playing loudly in his earbuds so as not to be further reminded, and he was almost glad to pull on a clean shirt and just _leave._ He was decidedly less glad when they arrived outside Grantaire’s apartment, but consoled himself with the thought that if Eponine was awake (and judging by the music pouring from under the door, she was) there would be an abundance of black coffee and pastries.

Courfeyrac knows about the arrangement between Enjolras and Grantaire. Maybe he doesn’t know about Combeferre’s involvement, but he knows, and, most importantly, isn’t angry about it. There’s a lot be said about Combeferre’s particular level of desperation as he picks up his phone, but he prefers to think of it as calculated logic.

Courfeyrac picks up on the second ring, and almost deafens him with his greeting.

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac yells, making him wince. “You’re calling me? At seven in the morning? Now, either I’m dreaming, or, you need dating advice.”

Combeferre doubts he would _ever_ go to Courfeyrac for dating advice, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts, instead saying “You’re not dreaming. I need your help.”

“Who is she? Or, is it a he?” At this, Combeferre thinks he must imagine the slight twinge of disappointment he hears in Courfeyrac’s voice, so he decides to ignore it.

“No, I—it’s not for me. “

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed. It’s about Enjolras and R, and uh, this… thing that they have.”

He can practically _hear_ Courfeyrac’s wry smile. “Friends with benefits? Though, I guess it’s more like ‘grossly one-sided acquaintances with benefits’ considering their situation.”

“Exactly,” says Combeferre gravely “And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m… worried.”

“About Enj? You’re always worried about Enj—he’s not a child, Ferre.”

“No. I’m worried about Grantaire.” He can hear the intake of breath on the other side of the line, and feels mildly offended. It’s surely not that surprising for him to be worrying about someone’s feelings?

“ _Our Grantaire_?” Courfeyrac says sceptically.

“Yes. _Our_ Grantaire.”

“Drinks a lot? Inferiority complex? Dark haired, artisty-type, closeted hipster Grantaire?”

“Is it really that hard to believe?” he asks.

“Well, if you’ll forgive me, you and he aren’t exactly best of friends. I mean, it’s not quite Enjolras levels of dislike, but you’re pretty cold.”

“But that was because I thought he—hey, that’s not the point,” Combeferre frowns “I just—it’s not that simple. I… Enjolras talked to me, a couple of days ago, about having _needs_.”

Courfeyrac snorts loudly. “Needs. Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Well, it was the second most awkward situation I’ve ever been in, but basically, he told me that he didn’t want a relationship and thought that R would be the perfect candidate because they hate each other and that he wanted ‘as little interference from his emotions as possible’. Of course, he only went and said that after I told him that I thought it would be great. God… I don’t know what I was thinking.” There’s a silence, and he can hear rustling over the speaker, followed by a crunch.

“Shit. Yeah.” There’s another pause, and Combeferre begins to wonder if he was wrong in thinking Courfeyrac wouldn’t judge him, but the thought is cut off by a loud bump in his ear, as if Courfeyrac has just jumped down from somewhere (hopefully not a table, as he has been known to frequent table-tops when particularly emotional).

“But, Ferre! My friend! Don’t you get it? Of course, I’ll give you my advice. Hell, I’ll even help you! We can be like, relationship superheroes or something! An intrepid duo, fighting for the good of the masses… God. This—” he says gleefully— “is going to be _awesome_.”

He has to admit, he’s a little worried for whatever Courfeyrac has in mind, but he can’t help but grin as his friend starts explaining _just how fucking good_ he looks in Lycra and a mask. He feels his phone vibrate once in his hand, and doesn’t bother checking it. He’s not quite ready for the day yet, he decides.

 

**From: Enjolras**

**To: Combeferre**

**_7:26 am_ **

_Gone to talk to R. be back soon._

 

 

* * *

 

  

Enjolras has never been to Grantaire’s apartment before. He’s managed to get the address from a disgruntled Bossuet, who is probably the least angry at him out of everyone, and it has taken him a while to find the building. He doesn’t know what he expected, but when he arrives, he is mildly surprised at the appearance of the place.

It’s grey and unassuming, but not at all unsavoury. There are small patches of flowers on the small lawn in front, and even boxes of herbs hanging from some of the windows. For some reason, he’d expected Grantaire to live in one of the shadier suburbs, but this seems almost quaint.

He knows that Grantaire lives with Eponine, but has never really payed much attention to the fact. He had assumed that they were a couple when Bossuet had first brought them to a meeting, but that was soon proved wrong when… whatever happened with Marius, happened. He may be slightly relieved that the voice when he presses the buzzer, isn’t Eponine’s. She may be held in very high esteem by many of his friends, but he saw the look she had in her eyes last night, and doesn’t much like the idea of seeing it any time soon. She seems quite protective of Grantaire, as much as he’d hate anyone thinking he’d need protecting, and despite the situation, it warms Enjolras to think that Grantaire has someone looking out for him.

“Hello,” he says “Grantaire? It’s me, Enjolras.”

There is a pause, and then a child answers. Enjolras is certain he must have the wrong flat number for a second, but the voice begins to reel off something that has obviously been rehearsed or written down. “Eponine is out, and she’ll be back in an hour if you want to come back later. Or like, leave a message or something. Whatever.” The kids voice is bored, even through the static filled speaker.

“I’m sorry, but is Grantaire there?” Enjolras really isn’t in the mood for waiting, and he’s not sure if what he has to say can be accurately conveyed by a child. “It’s just, I really need to see him.”

“He’s asleep, like all other normal people, duh.”

Enjolras forgets how children can be, contrary and very difficult, and he lets out a small sigh of frustration. “You’re awake, aren’t you? What does that make you?”

“Someone who isn’t deaf. Eponine was playing her weird music at like, six o’clock… and plus, she said I could go on the computer.”

“Uh, good?” Enjolras says cautiously. “So, can I, um, see Grantaire? when he wakes up, I mean.”

“So, like, you’ll just come and wait up here for an hour or something?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, cool,” says the kid. “You can see my new video game.”

 

Enjolras is let into a dingy looking stairwell lit by flickering florescent lights. It’s not quite as nice as the outside of the building, and it smells of dust and mildew. There is no elevator, so he makes his way up the stairs (thankfully, Grantaire’s apartment is only on the third floor, as he hasn’t had a coffee today, and doesn’t think he has the energy for a climb), and notes that the linoleum floor is a dirty red—different to the usual beige of the apartment buildings in the city. It makes the space seem darker than normal—darker and colder. He shivers. An extra layer would have been a good idea, but he left home in a hurry, with barely any time to eat, he had been so eager. Some of that initial eagerness is lost now, as the awkwardness of the situation sinks in; he will have to wait with a kid (presumably Eponine’s brother) until Grantaire wakes up, and then what? Enjolras will apologize and leave? Will Grantaire argue with him? Probably. It seems the most plausible outcome. He had sort of been relying on the fact that they would be alone, but now… he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

When Enjolras reaches the door, the nervous energy has turned into a feeling of dread. _What if he just makes things worse_. It’s not unlikely, considering his already strained relationship with Grantaire. he isn’t sure what will become of their arrangement, but he is certain it can’t be good. Whatever he said had seemed to strike a chord in Grantaire—had filled him with an anger that Enjolras had never seen in him before—and it hurts to think that he is the only person that has managed to cause it.

He knocks before his brain can send him spiralling even further, and he is greeted by a yell of ‘coming!’ from the other side of the door. A moment later, it is flung wide open, and before Enjolras stands a young boy who looks to be nine or ten. His brown, freckled face is somehow already inexplicably grubby and in one hand he holds a dangerously full bowl of Cheerio's.

“I’m Gavroche,” he says, mouth full.

“And I’m Enjolras,” Enjolras replies dutifully, even though he has already mentioned his name. He doesn’t really expect this kid to remember. But, instead of letting him in, Gavroche just stands there, staring at him thoughtfully.

“Are you Grantaire’s boyfriend?” he blurts out suddenly.

“Wha—I, uh…” says Enjolras weakly, taken aback by the forwardness of the statement. “Pardon?”

“Are you Grantaire’s boyfriend?” he repeats. “Because I heard ‘Ponine talking about it to that glasses guy. It’s okay, I know Grantaire likes boys too; he told me because I found something on the computer.”

This makes Enjolras blink. “On the… sorry, what?” He’s starting to feel a heat rising in his cheeks, counteracted by slight outrage that Grantaire would just leave… _that_ lying around on the computer for a kid to see.

“He flipped out at first, but then he got all quiet and made me promise not to tell Eponine about it—it’s supposed to be the family computer.”

Despite the situation, there is something strangely sweet about Gavroche calling it ‘the family computer’, as if that’s what they are—he and Eponine and Grantaire—a family. It also makes Enjolras’ heart twist at the thought of yet another version of R he is yet to see; a version of R that helps Gavroche with his schoolwork, or gives him piggyback rides around the living room. It makes him feel a tug in the pit of his stomach and there’s a corner of his brain supplying him with strange, warm pictures of sunlight and dark hair and laughter. It makes him feel things he can’t quite put a finger on.

He really has to stop this.

“So, uh, you said you had a new video game?”

“Finally,” says Gavroche with a sigh as he holds the door open for Enjolras. “I thought you’d never ask. Come in, there’s a multi-player version with some seriously wicked lasers.

 

 

 


	3. It Comes With the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an almost-kiss, a shower, and a dangerously hot coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im back!  
> sorry its taken so long to update; I've been away for a few weeks.  
> i really can't say how regular my updating schedule will be from now on, but what i can say is, I'm on the lookout for a beta (or multiple betas) again, so if you're interested, comment or find me on tumblr @ downhereintheflightpath

Grantaire considers himself a pretty open-minded guy, but there is a list of things he doesn’t expect to see in his living room before nine am, and Gavroche gesticulating wildly as Enjolras sits primly on a chair opposite him is probably at the top of that list.

“My teacher told me that stealing _anything_ is never okay,” Gavroche is saying. “Like, not for _any_ reason! She said that laws are there for a reason, and that’s why we have to obey them.”

Enjolras is shaking his head emphatically at this, and Grantaire’s stomach flips because _fuck_. He had nearly forgotten their last encounter. He feels stupid and confused, because surely Enjolras would not be _here_ , in his apartment, if their fight at the meeting was anything to go by. They bicker often, and it has almost become rote that, whatever Enjolras says, Grantaire will find some way to counter it. But the coldness in Enjolras’ eyes had been far from their usual routine, and they had both known as it happened that he had gone too far.

Grantaire really isn’t in the mood for some forced apology (one that has probably been written by Jehan) and he is about to tell Enjolras this in as little words as possible, when Gavroche turns towards him.

“Taire!” he crows. “Look who’s here!”

Enjolras’ head whips around so quickly, that Grantaire is surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash, and for a moment, he just sits there, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Uh, Grantaire,” he says awkwardly, his voice slightly deeper than is normal “I… um—You were gone, and uh, Gavroche said I could stay?” His hand settles at the nape of his neck, delicate fingers curling around a loose strand of hair. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I can go, if you want. I just… needed to talk to you.”

It’s honestly too much for Grantaire. He’s tired, and his head is pounding. Talking to Enjolras like this is _not_ a good idea, but he’s going to seem like a complete dick if he tells him to leave now. It’s obvious Enjolras feels bad, maybe not for hurting Grantaire, but for like, hurting him in a politically incorrect way or something. It wouldn’t be the classiest move to decline whatever shitty apology he has planned, so Grantaire resigns himself to the fact that his morning is officially ruined.

“Hey, Gav,” he says, not taking his eyes off Enjolras. “There’s three Euro in the cutlery drawer. Go buy yourself some gum or something.”

Gavroche opens his mouth to protest, but the idea of gum is obviously enticing enough, because he leaps to his feet and bounds into the kitchen. There is a moment of rattling and clicking metal as he rifles through the knives and forks, then he is slipping into a pair of worn trainers and slipping out the front door.

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire. It’s his Responsible Adult frown, that is usually to used to give Courfeyrac withering looks whenever he decides that the one shirt he is wearing is one shirt too many, or when his shoe prints somehow appear on the notes from the latest meeting. Grantaire often finds himself on the receiving end of this particular look, and knows what Enjolras is going to say well before he says it.

“You really shouldn’t just let him out on his own. How old is he? Nine?”

“Actually, he’s eleven,” Grantaire says, and he can practically _feel_ the exasperation radiating off Enjolras. “Listen, you have no idea what shit this kid’s been through, and until you do, can’t you please just trust that I can judge what he can and can’t handle?” He can hear the tiredness in his own voice, and Enjolras must hear it as well, as he visibly softens.

“Sorry.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s okay, I’m just… tired.”

Enjolras starts, a worried look flitting across his features. “If now’s not a good time, I can leave. It’s probably my fault anyway.”

“Ah—” Grantaire waves a hand— “I’m always tired.” It feels weak as he says it, so he tries to smooth it out with a chuckle. His voice is rough with sleep, and he’s pretty sure he must seem like a mess. Enjolras, however, doesn’t seem to notice. He is fidgeting with the hem of his jumper (it’s dark red and woollen and makes Grantaire want to touch him so badly it hurts) in an intense manner that is obviously just a ploy to look at Grantaire as little as possible. “Listen,” he tries again, “What happened at the meeting—it’s okay. We were both angry, and some things were said. End of story.” It’s pathetic, but at this point Grantaire would do anything to stop Enjolras looking so uncomfortable.

“But it’s not okay!” Enjolras blurts, making to stand, but thinking better of it halfway through, and returning to his seat. “What I said was based on assumption and anger. I don’t know anything about you, and it wasn’t okay of me to trivialise an issue like that, just for the sake of a fight.” He shifts in his seat, and raises his head to look Grantaire directly in the eyes. His bun today is even messier than normal, and stray coils of hair frame his face like a frizzy halo. He looks incredibly human—nothing like the social justice poster boy he usually resembles. It would be so easy to just reach out to him; to gently brush his cheeks or forehead; to _kiss him_. Not easy enough though. Grantaire hasn’t got much shame, but he likes to pride himself on having a little self-control (though the line between self-control and cowardice is thin and debatable). Enjolras’ eyes harden, and the apologetic comforting is gone. “What I said, I said to hurt you.”

Grantaire winces. “I know,” he says, “I always know.”

This seems to jar something in Enjolras, as he straightens up, and puts on his Justice Voice. “Grantaire, that’s the thing. I don’t—I don’t normally mean to. Normally it’s just, God—you make me so… confused.”

Grantaire can’t help but laugh. “Ah, okay. So, what _do_ you mean to do, exactly, because like, sometimes it’s kind of hard to tell, y’know?”  He knows he’s probably going too far, but it’s hard to stop once he gets going. “When you call me pathetic, it’s hard to get anything else out of it, and, Enjolras, I really don’t want to be your fucking charity case, just to be clear. There are some things you can’t fix with sex, believe it or not, so don’t expect me to just— “He doesn’t get very far because Enjolras is suddenly very close, very fast, and Grantaire can smell coffee on his breath and see the tiny freckles that dust the bridge of this nose. His eyes are dark and lidded. Grantaire swallows. “Don’t expect me to just, uh, offer myself up so that you can feel good about yourself… or something?” It comes out in a horrible combination between a squeak and a whisper, and he’s pretty sure every inch of his body is begging to contradict him. Hell, all Enjolras would have to do would be to say the word and he’d pretty much do anything. Especially when he’s looking so flushed and irritated. So much for pride, he supposes. Eponine would be disappointed in him.

But then Enjolras is talking, and Grantaire forgets whatever he’d been thinking, because his voice is low and, really, there isn’t any other way to describe it other than a growl, which sounds horrifically like something out of a Mills and Boon novel.

“Grantaire, I would _never_ use you. And honestly, I’m kind of offended you think I would. I would have thought you knew me well enough to figure that out.” He takes a step closer (something Grantaire didn’t think possible), and now their chests are brushing with every inhalation. “When I first asked you about this, I’m pretty sure I made it clear that it was supposed to fun and relaxing—for both of us.”

“Uh, yeah. That.” Grantaire would laugh again at that, because fun and relaxing are two things that this definitely is not, but he is too conscious of Enjolras’ body against his own to have any coherent thoughts.

“So, maybe if we could try and put all the bullshit aside? Because I think we could both use something to take our minds off life at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathes again, because it seems to be the only word he is capable of saying, though the whole situation makes little sense. He doesn’t see how having sex with Enjolras will take his mind off—well – _wanting to have sex with Enjolras_ , but he really isn’t in a state to be using logic. Before his poor brain even has a chance to comprehend what is happening, Enjolras’ hands are on the waistband of Grantaire’s boxers and his lips somehow find Grantaire’s neck and _fuck._ “Enjolras, stop,” he says, somehow finding his voice again.

Enjolras positively leaps away from him, looking mortified.

“Oh my God, Grantaire I am so sorry,” he says, covering his eyes with his hands. “I should’ve asked. That was… God. Sorry.” Enjolras must think that he has overstepped some huge boundary, from the tortured look on his face, and Grantaire doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He can still feel where Enjolras’ lips had been, and honestly, he loves the idea of where this is going, but—

“No, it’s fine. Just, not now.” He clears his throat and gestures to the door. “Gavroche will be back soon, and, as much I love scarring people for life, he _is_ my best friend’s brother.”

Enjolras leaps away from him as if he’s been electrocuted, and tugs at the hem of his jumper. “Ah, yeah.”

It’s strange to see Enjolras with such a lack of composure; he normally has an eloquent response to anything the universe has to throw at him. All things considered though, up until recently, the only times Grantaire has really spent time with Enjolras have been at meetings, surrounded by other people. He has heard Feuilly and Bahorel laughing over coffee about Enjolras’ social awkwardness on more than one occasion, and had found it fairly hard to comprehend. Though, now, it’s more than believable. Enjolras is stumbling over his words as he sidesteps around Grantaire, muttering about Combeferre, and essays. It’s cute—he’s not going to lie—but it’s also strangely disconcerting, and an Enjolras he really isn’t used to.

“Uh, okay. Bye,” he says as Enjolras hurriedly knots the laces of his converse. Grantaire is tempted to help him, because they will probably come undone and trip him on the stairs, but thankfully Enjolras stands before he has the chance to test his self-restraint.

“See you on Tuesday?” he asks. “It’s Combeferre’s birthday, and he doesn’t want anyone to know, so Courfeyrac is bringing in sparklers. I really think he’s just trying to test Hucheloup, but he insists on it. You can bring something along if you like.”

And then he’s gone.

Grantaire lets out a sigh and flings himself onto the sofa. If Eponine were here, she’s call him a drama queen, but she isn’t, so he’s willing to indulge himself in a little dramatic behaviour before she bursts his bubble. Where just before his mind had been blank, there are now hundreds of thoughts spinning through his head. It’s confusing and painful and he is _really fucking turned on right know_. He hadn’t really thought it was possible for Enjolras to be sexy when he wasn’t angry. But apparently, he doesn’t need a fiery halo _or_ the heat of a thousand avenging angels to make Grantaire weak at the knees. A soft red jumper and a ridiculously low whisper do the trick just fine, as it turns out.

He isn’t sure when Eponine or Gavroche will be back, but he sure as hell isn’t going to risk quickly getting off before they arrive. He doesn’t need any more shit from Eponine that he is already getting. Also, he knows from experience that confused and horny are a terrible combination, especially when Enjolras is involved. And Enjolras is almost always involved, albeit indirectly. A fight at the Musain, his eyes rolled back in exasperation as he raises his hands to run them through his hair, his shirt riding up and baring a small strip of skin.

Grantaire shivers, partially because needs to stop thinking about Enjolras or this can only lead to bad things, and partially because he is finally beginning to feel the sharp bite of the cold air on his bare arms and legs.

He decides that he can just as easily mope in a hot shower, and if Eponine arrives whilst he's in there she can easily wait half an hour to chastise him on self-control.

Picking himself up and rubbing his goose-bump-covered arms, Grantaire walks stiffly to the bathroom. He turns on the spray to let the water heat up, and tugs his t-shirt over his head. Trying to avoid catching sight of himself in the mirror is a difficult task, when there is at least one per wall (Eponine’s fault due to a meticulous grooming routine), and he almost winces when he gets an eyeful of pale chest and dark hair. His upper body is toned from years of boxing with Bahorel at the gym around the corner, but a combination of bad self-esteem, Enjolras and discovering the wonders of oil paints had ensured that he had spent the last few summers indoors, meaning that a healthy glow is something he _really doesn’t have_. His gaze flickers over his own face, and he grimaces at the dark circles under his eyes, and the pallor of his stubbly cheeks. Why Enjolras had wanted to be within three feet of him, he can't fathom. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about what his breath must smell like.

Once he is undressed and surrounded by steam, he forgets completely about Eponine and Gavroche.

He lets his shoulders relax, trails his hand down the line of hair below his navel, and when he closes his eyes, his mind is filled with narrow hips and curved necks. Slightly less confused, but just as horny, Grantaire doesn’t even hear the front door slam as he tilts his head back and just _forgets_.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras leaves Grantaire’s apartment feeling extremely dazed and somewhat aroused. He really had only intended to apologize and leave, but was thrown significantly off kilter by the appearance of Gavroche, who had interrogated him to within an inch of his life. He then became even more confused when Grantaire had woken up, because really, _who wears that_ _little to bed in winter?_ Grantaire’s legs had been very bare, his hair very messy, and Enjolras had become uncomfortably warm in his woollen jumper.

To make matters worse, his shoelaces come untied on his way out of the building, causing him to stumble and catch himself gracelessly on the low garden wall. A man in a crisp navy suit looks him up and down rather disapprovingly, and mutters angrily to the woman at his side; something about foreigners, drug addicts, and the decline of the neighbourhood. Enjolras smiles bitterly at the man as he rights himself, then pulls out his phone. He isn’t sure whether to text Combeferre, or just make his way back home. On one hand, Combeferre might be in one of his morale boosting moods, and give Enjolras some helpful and kind advice. On the other hand, he might be feeling particularly scientific, and just give Enjolras the cold, hard facts (which are very cold, and most definitely hard). He thinks for a moment, as a soft fall of rain begins to decorate the pavement at his feet, and then decides on a third option. He scrolls through his sparse contact list until he finds the right name, and sends a short text.

**From: Enjolras**

**To: Jehan**

**_9:29 am_ **

_coffee in 20? Musain._

Their response comes fast, and is punctuated by a series of exclamation marks and hearts. Enjolras smiles to himself.

_yes!!!! i cant believe it!!! id love to <33_

_see u soon <<333_

It isn’t long before Enjolras is tucked away quietly into a corner booth in the Musain with a drink so hot it is almost scalding clutched in his hands. He doesn’t like the way Jehan texts. It doesn’t match their voice and it is hard to image them speaking that loudly in real life. Unless they're yelling at him, that is. He hasn’t seen them since the meeting a few nights ago, and the look on their face had been one of pure outrage. It had been scary, to say the least, and he had almost thought they were going to punch him.

Jehan had been the one who had gotten him to start meditating, when his anxiety had been at its worst in high school, and had sat with him for hours as he fidgeted and grumbled on his bedroom floor. To see them with so much unchecked anger was unsettling, and as he sips his coffee gingerly, he feels a hint of worry begin to gnaw at his insides again. Jehan isn’t known for holding a grudge, and their text _had_ seemed quite friendly, but the relationship they have with Grantaire is strong and close. Enjolras wouldn’t be surprised if Jehan was coming here purely to lecture him, or even just wasn’t going to show up at all. But no sooner than the thought passes through his mind, Jehan is walking through the door of the café, looking radiant and collected, despite the worsening rain outside. Their outfit today is particularly fascinating; they sport a large, green plaid scarf that hides their neck and chin, while a flowy purple skirt brushes their mid-calf. Jehan is always incredibly interesting to look at, both physically, and in the way they dress, and something about their mannerisms relax Enjolras. As they slide into the booth opposite him, they smile warmly and say “Well. Long time, no see.”

Enjolras is taken aback slightly, because it really doesn’t feel like that long since the last time they spoke. “Uh, I guess,” he says slowly. “I mean, I saw you at the meeting, and…” he trails off, but Jehan just chuckles softly.

“Meetings don’t count, Enj. I mean just us. We haven’t really talked in a while.” They smell the air in the direction of his mug, and wrinkle their nose. “Did you order for me?”

Enjolras smiles, because he remembers this. Jehan is always late, but doesn’t like to wait for their drink once they’ve arrived, so it is an unspoken rule amongst their friends that whenever you are out with Jehan, you don’t ask, you order. It took Enjolras a few months of hit and miss to find out their preferences, but he thinks that now he has a fairly good grasp on it. “Yes,” he says, nodding once.

“What did you get?” Jehan’s drink of choice changes with their mood, and so most of the time this has to be guessed.

Today, Enjolras, after much deliberation, went with a chai, and he tells Jehan this.

“Ah,” they sigh “I think it’s a green tea kind of day— “They notice Enjolras’ frown and quickly “But I can make an exception.” As if on cue the waitress silently places a small teapot and a cup down on the table in front of them, and Jehan says “Thanks love,” and pats her gently on the shoulder. Enjolras doesn’t know the names of most of the waitresses at the Musain, but Jehan seems to have befriended them easily, falling into a pattern of casual touches and shared laughter. Enjolras envies them sometimes.

“How is it?” he asks cautiously, as they take a tentative sip and hiss loudly.

“I think I burnt my tongue!” they gasp, sucking in air loudly through their teeth. But they're smiling, and Enjolras feels warm. He feels laughter bubbling up from his stomach and growing until it overflows. Jehan is laughing with him, and it feels _so good_. He can’t remember the last time he laughed, and the fact that it’s over something this small somehow makes it better. There have been too many big things in the past few days, and to laugh over something that doesn’t matter is a relief.

As soon as they have calmed down, Jehan picks up their drink and takes another sip, having seemingly forgotten the cause of their previous hysteria, and this sets the both of them off again, giggling stupidly while a young woman shoots them irritated looks from the other side of the room. Enjolras can feel tears forming in his eyes, and across the table, Jehan is holding their hand to their mouth and shaking.

“God,” Enjolras says after he has steadied his breathing, and Jehan reaches for their cup again, grinning, “Stop. Please.”

“Hm.” They look quizzically at him. “I’ll consider it—but only if you tell me what’s up.”

“Who said anything _was_ up?”

“Oh, Enj. You haven’t exactly been yourself these past few weeks, have you? It’s okay, it doesn’t take a genius to work it out.” Jehan reaches a hand across the table, and strokes the top of his hand with their thumb. “I just want to know what’s on your mind.”

He doesn’t really want to answer, or even know how, for that matter, and he pulls his hand away awkwardly. His mind is jumbled, and after the laughing, he doesn’t trust himself to put together any kind of explanation. He tries though, avoiding Jehan’s face as he speaks. “I don’t really know,” he says “My head is so busy, and this essay I’ve got to write is killing me—“

“Bullshit.”

He looks up in shock, and Jehan’s jaw is set, their eyes icy. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, but we both know this has nothing to do with essays, or school, or even the fucking ABC. You’re always busy, Enjolras, and it’s never affected you like this before. I don’t mean to be harsh, but either you tell me what’s up, or I swear to god, I will walk right out of this café and leave you alone with this ridiculously hot chai.”

Enjolras is taken aback by this sudden outburst, and is at a loss on how to respond. He has never heard Jehan speak so abruptly, and doesn’t know what they want to hear. “I’m sorry,” he tells his mug. “It’s just… I don’t know how I feel. I wake up feeling sick, and I can’t concentrate on anything anymore. He—It—confuses me so much.” He tries to stop himself, but the word has already passed his lips, and a sly smile is spreading across Jehan’s face.

“It confuses us all, darling,” they say knowingly, “But I’m sure if you take some time to get to know… _it_ , I think you’ll find _it’s_ a lot less confusing than you thought.” There is a pause, and Jehan looks at him so warmly that he finds it hard to stay quiet.

“I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, you know?” he says. “I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“Enj, I seriously doubt you could make him uncomfortable. I think only _he himself_ can do that.” Their smile turns sad momentarily, and they fidget with the corner of an unopened packet of sugar for a moment before they glance back up, the expression gone. “I’m happy for you, Enjolras. I really am.”

Enjolras isn’t entirely sure why they are getting this worked up about his sex life, but he doesn’t really mind it. At least they aren’t angry at him, like he’d dreaded they would be.

His friends have always been oddly excited by his life, Courfeyrac stating on multiple occasions that he was an “Enjolras stan’. He can’t understand why, and sometimes it makes him uncomfortable, like they’re mocking him, not unlike how Grantaire often mocks him, but it’s not as if he can do anything about it.

“I…I don’t know,” he says slowly. “It feels strange.”

Jehan just scoffs. “It always feels strange,” they say. “New relationships take a while to get used to.” And Enjolras’ stomach sinks.

“Jehan. We aren’t dating.”

“What?” Their eyes are wide.

“I said we aren’t dating. Grantaire and I—it’s just… a thing. It’s casual.” He feels gross saying it like that, but it’s the truth, he supposes.

Jehan lets their head drop backwards, and groans loudly. “Fuck.”

“God. Jehan. Who did you tell?” He can feel that panic rising up again, making his throat tight and his pulse pound loudly in his ears. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tries desperately to control his breathing and sit still.

Jehan isn’t answering him, which is definitely a bad sign. “Who?” he presses “Joly? Musichetta? Cosette?”

A minute nod from Jehan.

“Which one?” he asks.

A pained moan.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ “And the others? Bahorel? Feuilly? What about them?” He has to leave. Leave the café, the suburb, the city. He wants to get on the next one-way flight out of the country, never to return again.

Jehan lifts their head, and their hair falls down to cover most of their face. They look at him from behind a russet curtain.

 “Enjolras. I am so sorry.”

 


End file.
